


Gasoline

by EuerHiraeth



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Fring is a psychopath and a sadist, M/M, Twisted and psychopathic plot, Very non-canonical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24854707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EuerHiraeth/pseuds/EuerHiraeth
Summary: Fring received a captured Lalo Salamanca late at night.Warning: Non-canonical, and might be disturbing to some.
Relationships: Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca/Ignacio "Nacho" Varga, Gustavo Fring/Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Gasoline

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know how I even thought about this ship. Technically they’re not even a ship, since I’m the only one with half my foot on it. Anyway, this is a load of nonsense and nothing makes sense and I just want to see Lalo cry. Featurette is the one to blame—Tony Dalton with his hair down is just so strangely soft and innocuous and I want to make a mess of not only his hair but also (filtered).
> 
> Hidden Ignacio Varga/Eduardo “Lalo” Salamanca.

His men arrived at midnight. They carried the blanket all the way into the house and dropped it on the sofa, all the while he watched in the porch under the flickering lamp. The blanket was rolled up, slumped and heavy, soaked in blood. The leading man turned to him, with the rest standing behind him in a silent circle. Four of them were missing.

“It was a dogfight,” said the man, “We underestimated his strength.”

A splash of blood clotted his greying beard. Some guy coughed; dust flew in the windowless room. Fring lifted his chin. They unrolled the blanket, revealing the load inside. Lalo Salamanca lay there, bloody, lifeless, shirt torn and jeans ripped. He reminded Fring of those cooked, skinned chicken in the kitchen of Los Pollos Hermanos, pale and revolting. He thought of the first time they met. The man was beaming as he looked up to Gus, pupils dark as midnight, glittering with the warmth of glowing sun and bites of buried frost. The red alarm had rung.

Fring excelled at preying. He sniffed it out of Lalo and in that instance knew he had met his match.

“Get him clean up,” said Fring, “Then take him upstairs.”

Leaning on the restaurant sofa the younger Salamanca had lifted his eyes to smile at him, wrinkles at the corners of his lips extending to form a wide grin, chuckling slightly. A strip of dark hair had fallen from his forehead, the mid-day sunlight seemed to have lit up his face. He smelled of cedar and amber, blood, lust, gasoline. _How lucky for me,_ he had grinned, eyes glistened of innocent malice. His figure had since slid past Fring’s visions at night, sleek and glacial, in the shades of a flicking serpent.

He lay here now motionless, chest heaving, like a ripped, stained doll. The alarm was shattered.

“As per your previous instructions, sir?” Asked the man. Fring nodded.

“All that you need is in the top drawer in the room.”

He finished his supper in silence. Noises emerged from upstairs for several minutes, before dying back down. At last when he had loaded the dishwasher, he stood and headed for the stairs.

They had the Salamanca fresh and ready before tossing him into his room, to chain him against the wall. Fring leaned on the door frame with crossed arms, watching them clean away the mess in the bathroom. The air stank of blood and despair. Fring inhaled deeply. 

It was always intriguing to him how easily a man could be broken. In Eduardo Salamanca’s case, this oddity in his entire obnoxious, imbecile family, it would take one simple doze of benzodiazepines each day. One per day, with intravenous infusion delivering minimum amount of nutrient solution, and the serpent would soon be stripped of its power to flick its scarlet tongue. Instead, it would be skinned, boiled, and seasoned into a beautiful, gratifying meal.

From what the men told him, the Salamanca reacted violently to the enema. Not that he had anything left in him to make an ugly scene; he “whimpered like a deer” when the head of that clyster was shoved into his bowel. A Salamanca, although fatally wounded, seemed to still be capable of immense strength. Fring tapped lightly on his elbow.

He headed for the kitchen as the men started moving. His supervision was not needed for the rest of the night, and he would rather love a glass of wine. He liked to unwrap his present at the last minute for a pleasant surprise.

\- -

The time for revelation finally came on a Friday night, exactly two weeks after. He ended his shift in Los Pollos Hermanos early, leaving the shop to Lyle, and drove straight back to his house. 

“Clean him,” he said when his men arrived, “then prepare him.”

He made supper when they were upstairs. They soon left, but he took everything slow: first a full dinner, stewed beef with chili con carne and red wine, then a long, steamy shower. 

He took his time treading outside the room, made sure that even at his weakest, Salamanca would have heard his footsteps and knew he was coming. He had repeatedly done so over the past couple of weeks, never at a set time or speed. At first he could hear the rattling of the chains, thumps on the wall, but soon there was nothing. Today was no different.

He inserted the key and twisted the doorknob. He almost couldn’t keep his heart in his chest. He was the key-bearer for the Salamancas. He smiled at the ambiguity of that statement. The entire family, from their rotten roots to putrid shoots, would tumble and fall beneath him, and all would be unlocked today.

He pushed in and quickly turned to lock the door again. He rested his hand on the handle for a brief moment. Dust flew in the corner in the faint light of a flickering lamp. His eyes sweated for the first time in a long while and in his fainting, momentary weakness, Max’s laughter chimed in the air.

When he turned, he saw his present, strained and wrapped, tied to the bed. His quarry’s eyes glared, dark and feeble, pale as winter-day sheet. The bed beneath him was black, soft, fluffed, chosen for him. People feared the most when a tiny part of their treatment somehow contradicted the entire situation they were in, anxious and confused and weak for the unpredictability. Fring tasted a current of toxic pleasance on the tip of his tongue. He only noticed the man’s shivers as he approached, and he nearly laughed.

He reached for the Salamanca’s ankle and felt his cold skin tense underneath his palm. He eyed him up and down, from his loosely buttoned shirt to undone trousers, taking in his state. He was breathing, heaving rather, his black eyes locked on Fring struggling to come into focus, visibly affected by the best of those drugs. 

Fring spoke to the Salamanca and waited until he saw the fear in realization on the flushed face.

Hector had called him _the chicken man_. For long he had been driven by vengeance, which in time mixed up in his lust for power, for bloodshed, for something else. He was _the Chilean, the faggot, Mors_. But in his long life until now, nothing had tasted better than the fruits of vengeance. It had taken him minimal effort to break this man. This man, this Machiavellian vessel of volatile spontaneity and faux geniality—petulant, deceptive and devious, who leapt like a cheetah and lurked like a tiger—lay here now under him, defeated and owned, a piece of meat on his chopping board ready to be carved. 

And fried. Perhaps Hector would like a taste of his own nephew.

When he sliced his finger in, Salamanca’s eyes sparked. He caught the glint of fury, the frost in his eyes provoked the slinking gloop behind Fring’s ribs. He bent down to touch him like a lover, rubbed his temples gently and kissed him like a feather.

Eventually Salamanca came on just his fingers, body shivering, spattered his pathetic liquid all over his own stomach. Fring unzipped his fly and pushed himself into the contracting hole.

Salamanca whimpered under him. It was funny seeing him like this, eyes reddened and sweaty slipping out of focus, lips parted under the soaked moustache, stripped of clothes and all facades. It was difficult to connect this wriggling, boiling creature with the man who perched in the shadows in his office, grinning and extending a hand: _If you need a favour, I’m your man._ His muscles felt relatively soft, certainly powerless, under Fring’s grip, leaving already marks of red and black. Excellent work of the benzodiazepines, just enough for the pleasure and humiliation. He might consider a raise for Victor.

He saw the hands tighten when he came. He gave a clean punch while ejecting inside him, watched him pass out, thrusting in the rectum filled with semen leisurely. For the first time in a long while, he felt light in his head.

\- -

Monday was the whip, Tuesday was the wax and cuffs. Wednesday was his men’s carnival, and Thursday was the horse. From Friday onwards Eduardo belonged to only him, until Monday came, and all went in cycles. His men were kept thrilled and grateful. Their passion never ceased and it was a nice weekly treat for their ever hard work.

Sometimes he stayed to watch his men fuck the Salamanca. He observed his tensed thighs and swollen nipples, every inch of his body covered in scarlet marks of glaring bruises. They liked to take turns until he became loose enough to fit two, or when they got lucky three, at once, and then the riot truly began. Salamanca tended to lose his voice halfway through the party, throat swollen and stuffed, shivering only when nails scraped his nipples or his tip. Seeing their fondness with the body, Fring had no doubts in how Salamanca would probably have died an ugly death if he had permitted his men to use the box. The tools in the box were his and his alone, and when he caught himself in a great mood, he would unleash them on Salamanca. But perhaps he would consider letting him die that way. It would be a nicely grotesque scene.

By the time they found Varga, Manuel was already miles away.

The night was clear. He had ordered Varga to meet him outside the garage, just before his flight. By the time he arrived his spy was already waiting, in a scarlet tank top and dark black jeans. He could smell Varga’s fear from afar. He was tensed, troubled and anxiously alert. Fring never once doubted his decision to choose Varga. The young man was a lurking panther, quiet and shrewd, and deserved not caress but a tight clutch digging into the back of his neck. Not a fit for Lalo, but enough for the Salamancas.

He stepped out of the car. Varga greeted him, hands clenched at his sides. He had questions, but Fring was not interested. He waited until Varga reported to him how all evidence had been cleansed to nod and announce him free. He didn’t care if he was telling the truth; he would have his men onto this anyway and if they proved otherwise, he would personally see to Varga’s end. Varga visibly relaxed upon his words, his shoulders hunched, eyebrows flattened. He almost pitied him. Freedom, all that he desired, so insignificant and vain.

He turned around when Varga stopped him. Lalo’s name came out of his mouth.

“That will be none of your concern,” he replied, “Lalo has been taken care of.”

He watched Varga’s face closely and saw, unsurprisingly, a glint of anger. There was also something else, something so well hidden in between the edges, something that Fring couldn’t read. He wasn’t bothered, Varga was of no concern to him. 

He had already given Varga his word for safety. His former spy however remained insistent. Fring grew impatient, and he left without voicing one more word, contemplated as the stinging gaze on his back lingered. 

\- -

“You have yourself a very loyal servant,” later that day he said to Eduardo.

The oddity in the Salamanca family was handcuffed to the headboard, half sat and tense, with cum dripping off his forehead onto his cheeks. He wasn’t looking at Fring, barely gave even a response.

“You took care of his dad,” said Fring. He laid down the whip, started stroking with his hands crimson marks on the Salamanca’s inner thighs. He watched his semen streak past the man’s eyes, some lingering on his eyelashes, clotting them when they bat. Salamanca mumbled a yes. He was too weak and used for anything, but Fring didn’t drug him for a mute.

When he forced himself in, Salamanca made a hoarse shriek in his broken throat. It sounded like wind howling through a torn bellows. Fring shut him up with a tight grasp around his neck, felt the rectum tensing around his length and thrusted harder.


End file.
